


Power, Sword, and Shield

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Baahubali fics [1]
Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Oneshot, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 09:50:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13924635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: In which a prime minister watches his Queen Mother and meditates on the future. Set during the court scene that follows Martand’s attempted coup.





	Power, Sword, and Shield

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a couple of years ago for a friend, and upon finding a thriving Baahubali fandom on AO3, decided to publish it here. Bear in mind this was written before the second movie came out, and it is also written from the POV of a prime minister OC. Set during the court scene that follows Martand’s attempted coup.

Prime Minister Chandrakant could hardly believe the events of the last twenty-four hours. The queen’s death in childbirth, the attempted coup, and the entrance of Sivagami Devi. He would have liked nothing better than to sleep, but he sternly shook off the weakness and commanded himself to stand at attention. Sivagami Devi had called this emergency meeting, and out of respect for the only (competent) member of the royal family left, he owed her his unfailing attention and obedience.

In the three years since Sivagami had first come to Mahishmati, Chandrakant had had every one of his preconceptions about women turned upside down. When he heard that a bride had actually been found for Bhijjala Deva, he had envisioned a foolish, lovestruck girl who was convinced she could bring happiness to the poor, crippled prince of Mahishmati who would never be king by nothing more than the power of her own steadfast devotion; or perhaps an avaricious, grasping shrew who wanted the prestige of being married to a prince from a big kingdom, even if he would never hold any actual power; or even an equally useless scion of a family desperate to marry her off and wash their hands of her. Whatever she was, he had not expected to ever regard her with anything other than utter disdain concealed behind a facade of politeness.

The young woman who arrived, however, was none of these things. From the moment she stepped off the boat, the then-princess from Dasarna carried herself with the dignity and grace but none of the haughtiness of a queen. She returned everyone’s gaze with her own steady, intelligent one. Sivagami was under no illusions about the fact that she was a stranger in this country, and that she had to earn their trust and respect in order to be accepted in her new home, instead of the other way around. She had worked herself into the Mahishmati court, becoming an indisputable fixture in its dynamics, learning its ways and subtly adapting to them, all the while without sacrificing her principles and remaining true to herself. It was not an easy dance she had danced these past three years, and in doing so, she had forced Chandrakant to seriously revise his opinions about what women were capable of and earned his undying respect, admiration, and loyalty.

Perhaps most remarkable were her motives for coming to Mahishmati, and the nature of her marriage to Bijjala Deva. Sivagami was conscientious and, unusually for a woman, well-educated in politics and aware of how to use her position and influence to accomplish tasks. She had married Bijjala Deva in the hopes of securing an alliance between her small kingdom and the much bigger kingdom of Mahishmati. Astonishingly, however, she still seemed to respect her husband and care for him, if not love him, even though he never showed her a modicum of the same courtesy she showed him or any appreciation for the woman who was a far finer wife to him than he deserved. Perhaps she had married him out of some pity as well as duty, though if she did care for him, her care was wasted on a man who would never realize or acknowledge it. In any case, whatever private feelings existed between husband and wife were none of his concern.

Sivagami Devi sat upon the throne, her softy squalling son nestled in her lap. It was unseemly for a high-ranking woman to carry her child about with her so openly, but Chandrakant was an experienced enough politician to know that it was better he acclimate himself to the princess's idiosyncrasies and not let his personal feelings interfere with doing his job. Around her, all the ministers, advisers, and other servants to the Crown were gathered, despite it being late night. The turmoil of the last year had left the future of the realm hazy, and there was no time to trifle about small things such as the hour.

Vikrama Deva, their handsome young king and golden boy, the hope of the kingdom and the antithesis of his older, unfit-to-reign brother, had perished in battle overseas barely six months before. His death had left the entire kingdom bereaved and desolate, none more so than his pregnant wife, Queen Rukmini Devi. She had sunk into a terrible depression and people had whispered that the child would be born dead or deformed, leaving the only claimant to the throne Bijjala Deva.

It was during this time that Sivagami had emerged as the pillar of strength for the kingdom. She herself was in the later stages of her own pregnancy, yet despite everyone else's warnings and admonitions to the contrary, she had immersed herself into the heavy business of ruling the country, refusing to allow her grief for her brother-in-law, whom she had loved dearly, to interfere with her duties to her people. She had commiserated with Rukmini Devi, doing her best to boost her spirits and keep her from sinking into despair, although ultimately her support had not been enough to keep the queen from dying in childbirth.

Chandrakant did his best to keep fury from engulfing him, but he was disgusted at how many ministers who professed themselves to be Mahishmati's most loyal servants had jumped at the chance to seize power, now that the king and queen were dead. Martand, that treacherous snake, had even tried to stab Sivagami Devi, and with her child in her arms, no less! The depths of his disloyalty had shocked him, but what had unnerved him even more was how prepared Sivagami had been for the attack, and how efficiently she had taken him down, defending herself as ably as Kattapa or any other seasoned warrior, and how quick she had been to comfort her disturbed child. A streak of blood still stained her cheek, as she regarded the room with the keen gaze that never failed to send chills down Chandrakant's spine, even after spending years in proximity to her.

"The new prince will be named Amarendra Baahubali," Sivagami announced without preamble, her words echoing in the throne room. "In light of his mother's untimely demise, the throne of Mahishmati stands unoccupied."

"Respected Sivagami, but surely the answer is obvious. You are a born stateswoman and a warrior, whose skills outstrip that of any man anyone could name. You are more that capable of ruling, and you deserve to ascend the throne and rule Mahishmati."

Chandrakant gritted his teeth as as he heard the speaker, an irritating young sycophant who was always quick to ingratiate himself with whomever held the upper hand at the moment and even quicker to abandon them when the tides turned and a new figure gained influence. As if the young upstart wouldn't jump at the chance to wear the crown himself the moment it looked like Sivagami was losing her grasp on it!

Fortunately, Sivagami saw through the flattery for what it was. "I thank you for your praise, but regardless of my capabilities, I have no desire to take the throne for myself, and more than that, no right to do so. I am but a guest in this kingdom, and it would be presumptuous of me to go where I am not welcome."

A wise move, Chandrakant thought. If Sivagami were to take the throne for herself, her claim would be shaky and tenuous at best. She had no claim to the throne in her own right, only through her husband; a husband, moreover, who had been explicitly excluded from the succession. It was better that she remain on the sidelines, guiding the country from behind the throne rather than directly on it.

“Then who will rule?” asked the young upstart.

Chandrakant had to admit he had a point. The question of the next king was a thorny one. Normally Bhallala Deva, as the elder brother’s son, would be the next king, but Amarendra was the last reigning king’s son. No one could say for certain whether Bijjala’s exclusion from the line of succession extended to his descendants. Of course, the crippled prince himself would have his own ideas about whether it did.

Bijjala Deva surged forward. “Why is that a question? The throne belongs to my son, Bhallala Deva! Tell him that, my wife!”

Sivagami paid him no mind. She beckoned to one of her handmaidens, who presented her with the newborn prince, Amarendra. Cradling her son and her nephew in each of her arms, she stood at attention at the center of the room.

“Both my sons have a right to the throne. The one with more bravery, compassion, and wisdom will be crowned king of Mahishmati when he comes of age,” she stated firmly, meeting the eyes of each man in the room, daring them to contradict her edict. “This is my word, and my word is the law!”

Her words echoed in the high-ceilinged throne room, and every man lowered his head in acknowledgement of the declaration, save an incensed Bijjala Deva. With that, Sivagami Devi dismissed the court, including her husband. As the mass of ministers, administrators, and advisers began to depart, she called out, “A word with you, respected Chandrakant.”

Chandrakant approached the dais, where Sivagami still stood with the heirs of Mahishmati in her arms, flanked by a couple of her maids. The Queen Mother waited until all the throne room was clear before she beckoned to him to come closer.

Bhallala was whimpering again. Sivagami cooed to him gently, soothing him and rocking him until he quieted. She regarded her sons with a fond smile for a moment before looking up at the minister. “Would you like to hold him?”

She held out the hours-old Amarendra Baahubali to him, and Chandrakant awkwardly took the infant into his own arms, having never held a child before. One tiny hand flailed out, its fingers searching for something to hold onto, and he tentatively offered his finger. The boy immediately grasped it, his grip surprisingly strong. Chandrakant looked up, amazement in his eyes. Sivagami smiled, her pride in the child she had adopted as her own already apparent. Chandrakant inwardly said a quick prayer of thanks that the gods had granted this poor, orphaned child the unwavering love of a mother, though he was unsure it would be able to count on a father’s love.

Sivagami settled herself more comfortably on the throne and cleared her throat. “I wanted to thank you, for your show of loyalty earlier. Mahishmati needs every ally it can get, and your support and advice in these troubled times will be invaluable.”

The minister nodded his affirmation. Sivagami narrowed her eyes slightly. “If there is something you wish to say, my lord, speak plainly. I am not so deluded to believe that I am all-knowing, and I welcome the candid advice of those around me.”

Chandrakant released a breath, saying another quick prayer that Mahishmati’s regent was wise enough to recognize her own failings and to at least be willing to listen to criticism. “Sivagami Devi, are you sure it is wise to raise the boys like this? In direct competition for a throne? I fear that would only breed resentment and animosity between the two, and leave a legacy of bitter distrust.”

“I appreciate your concerns, but there is no need to worry. The brothers will learn to love each other and to work together, and to use their strengths to benefit Mahishmati. They are both my sons, and between them, the kingdom will flourish and enter a golden age.”

“I am sure that you will do your best to love both of them equally, but, if you will pardon my bluntness, I fear I cannot say the same for your esteemed husband.”

Sivagami’s gaze fell to the two boys in their arms as she contemplated his words. When she looked up again, her eyes were shining with determination. “My husband grieves right now, perceiving himself to be a wronged brother and a wronged prince, but at heart, he is a father, and in time, he will come to love the son he has gained,” she nodded at the bundle in Chandrakant’s arms. “This little one’s birth was marred by tragedy, but it is out of adversity that the strongest spirits are forged, and the strongest friendships.”

Chandrakant was left moved and uneasy in equal measure by her faith that she could raise the two boys this way, with the lure of a throne and a father who could be counted on to play favorites always standing between them. He recognized, however, the fire of certainty in her eyes, and the idealism that sustained her, and knew it would be pointless to press the matter. He inwardly vowed to keep a close eye on the royal family, to ensure that the infamous family feud did not bleed into the next generation.

The newborn in his arms began crying, and Sivagami reached out for him. She resettled both babies in her arms and waited until they had quieted down. “Nevertheless, every man who gives him the love of a father would be a blessing to the poor child. I know you to be a trustworthy and loyal man, respected Chandrakant, and I would ask that when the boys are old enough, you school them in the ways of politics and statecraft.”

Chandrakant bowed his head and murmured his thanks, deeply moved and aware of the honor that this gesture conveyed. He did not linger long afterward, Sivagami dismissing him with a polite nod. As he swept away from the throne room and toward his private quarters, he sent up two final prayers to the gods: one of thanks, that the woman who would rule Mahishmati for the next twenty years possessed so much fortitude and perception, and another asking for the strength to always stand by her, no matter what.


End file.
